


A Study in Satie

by rostropovich



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Drabble Collection, Loneliness, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, this bed aint big enough fer the two of us
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 03:10:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16338695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rostropovich/pseuds/rostropovich
Summary: Collins and Farrier have a collection of records of Erik Satie's compositions in their home.





	1. Gymnopédie No. 3

Sometimes, they lie still in bed, eyes open in the dark, wasting the night away. The drapes rise and fall like haunting ghosts, translucent and ethereal, moving in the cold, autumnal breeze that flows through the house. Somewhere on the moors, a nightingale sings. Inside, Erik Satie’s [Third Gymnopedie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iHEpuj96bCg) turns and turns and turns beneath the needle, spinning for seemingly all eternity. The chords chime each breath that they breathe, reminding them that, after everything they are still alive, while a lonesome, twirling melody dances on fingertip along the piano keys. Sometimes, they speak, and sometimes, they let the piano speak for them.

A car passes the house along the old dirt road in front of the house, the headlights gliding across the grey blue walls as it passes. Farrier can hear someone inside the car laughing. The sound of the engine humming drifts off into the distance and, once again, there is only piano.

On the bedside table is a picture in a round, tarnished brass frame of Farrier and Collins on the beaches of Ibiza. Farrier wears a full grin on his face, with a Blue Hawaiian in hand and an American style hat on his head, up to his knees in the ocean. Daniel is mid-swig of a bottle of something or other, with a quip on his lips and the beginnings of a sunburn on his cheeks.

The photograph isn’t entirely Utopian. Charlie’s smile accounts for the lingering traces of pain that reside in the cracks of the scar on his face. Daniel favours his left leg noticeably. Precious mortality is evident in the photograph, a strange allegory for the quickness of which life is taken. _I should not be alive_ , Farrier thinks, and it chills him still just as much as it did when he touched down after his first dogfight years ago.

Truly, the photograph could have been the same with any other number of pilots in it, but instead it is of them. Of Charles Farrier and Daniel Collins. Of byproducts, of survivors, of friends, of wingmates, of lovers, of partners.

“Do you ever wonder why you lived?” asks Farrier.

“All the time,” says Collins. His accent is thick from disuse. “Stopped caring about dying about halfway through the war, but no one actually thinks they’re going to make it. People keep dying, blokes you know, and blokes you don't, and you just wonder when your turn is.” His hand finds Farrier's and their fingers lace together. Charlie grunts softly, staring at the photograph. Every waking moment of his life for years had been dedicated to his survival. Just one more sortie, just one more step, just one more day, just one more shot, and then everything would be alright. And suddenly it was, and he was back at the home he grew up in and his mother was dead and his father was gone and Charlie was swept away by the cold ocean waves and the only thing left was a man who piloted life without a fuel gauge. Death seems to be all he can think about now, even though he finds he has so much to live for.  _It's not fair_ , he thinks, and some calloused part of his mind says that life isn't fair. But death is.

“I don’t know how we managed it.” Farrier gives a huff at the end that might have been a laugh if his lips came around to form it. It seems a strange thing to laugh at, the misery and anxiety of walking the line of mortality so often that the stress alone makes one indifferent about their own survival. But if he didn’t laugh, Farrier supposes the only other option would be to cry.

“Jesus, maybe,” says Collins, and he huffs too.

“Do you believe that?”

“Before the war, yeah.”

“But not anymore?”

“Not anymore,” he echoes. 


	2. Embryons desséchés, II. D'Edriophthalma

“[So ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xfixNLjn3Tw)how long are we going to keep pretending like this isn’t happening?” Farrier says quietly from the threshold leading into the bedroom, running a hand through his hair anxiously. Snow flurries hush against the window panes and the warm lights buzz faintly alongside the hum of the furnace. Daniel’s body is dark in the dim light from where he sits at the escritoire in the master bedroom. He heaves a sigh and turns, leaning his elbows on his knees. 

“What’d the banker say?”

“We have until the end of the month.”

“And nothing else?” Collins says, an edge to his voice.

“They won’t help us at all. Can’t apply for a fuckin’ loan, can’t get any extensions. If we can’t get this house payment in-”

“I know!” He rubs his eyes and says, quieter, “I know, Charles. I’ll try and get more hours on base. Maybe you could get a part time job there in the hangars when you aren’t at the garage.” 

“I’m glad you brought the base up, actually,” Farrier clears his throat. “I saw Bradford on the way out of the bank.” Daniel’s stark blue eyes flick to Farrier immediately. “There’s a job on base that’s been open for a while now. Said he didn’t have anyone in mind to fill it, but he asked if I was interested. It’s a piloting gig.” Collins is already shaking his head. “No, listen. There’s no travel, no transport, none of that. It’s an experimental thing.”

“Test piloting?”

“Yeah.”

“Charles, I thought we had an agreement.”

“The bank’s taking our house away.”

Daniel’s fists clench and he stands up abruptly. “It doesn’t fucking matter, right? I really could care less about the fucking house. I would rather be out on the  _ streets _ than have to bury you. Again.” The dim light of the bedroom catches the tears in his eyes like gemstones.

“Danny…”

“Don’t give me that,” he seethes. “Take the job, Farrier, and I’ll leave you without a second thought.” 

“Where would you go?” asks Charles evenly. 

Daniel’s lip quivers. “Ibiza.” The island was a whole other planet, a respite that was worlds away from the crumbling debris of the war, both the ruins they could see and the ruins they couldn’t. They had left the moment Farrier was discharged from hospital. 

Farrier pulls him into a hug and Collins melts against him. Their warmth staves off the coldness in the room and, for a strange moment, the bank’s demands lose all of their weight and consequence. What is there to be had, if there is not one of them and the other together? What is there to need if they have one another?

He doesn’t realise that Collins is crying until he speaks. “You don’t know. You don’t know what it was like." Farrier can empathise to some extent. Just as Collins waited for him, he waited for Collins. His eyes were always cast up to the skies, searching, listening for that familiar rumble of a Merlin engine. Oftentimes, he worried if Collins himself was still alive or if, in some cruel twist of fate, had been captured too. It was a miserable exercise in futility, constantly waiting and wondering and fearing. Perhaps, in a way, he was lucky, for towards the end, Farrier began to rot from the inside out from hopelessness and pain. There was no escape, no consolation for Collins. "Damn the house, damn the car, damn the land, damn it all to hell. I’ll lose everything before I have to lose you again.”

Farrier kisses his cheek and smooths his hair. "We aren't going anywhere, darling."


	3. Gnossienne No. 5

There is spring somewhere to be found in the long beams of sunlight as the push through the snow white dollops floating like leaves upon the watery sky. The breeze that rolls along the highlands and smoothes the silver grasses this way and that is still adamant about relinquishing the biting winter chill, but the sun coaxes progress. Snow still lingers on the slanted roof and freezes the grass into hard ice in the shadows of the house. 

The breeze is a welcome byproduct of the winter. It’s fresh and clean from the fallen snow and the isolation of the home. As it rises up the crests and falls of the hills, it reminds Farrier to breathe, reminds him that he’s still alive. 

The door to the back garden slams shut and Farrier glances over as he pins a damp, yellow pillowcase to the clothesline. It’s Collins, whose hair shimmers like spun gold. He has their wooden Victrola in his hands. Slowly, the phonograph had accumulated a slew of tattoos over time. Scratches sliced through the surfaces, watermarks warped the wood, chips lined the once streamlined edges. The one thing that has been staved from the Victrola is dust. 

Collins sits heavily on the grass and makes a face. The ground is still damp from the snowmelt, no doubt. Nevertheless, he sets the Victrola down and opens the lid. “Got you something,” he declares. 

Charlie smiles broadly. The act of being gifted something, of being thought of a preferred still sends a tickle of delight fluttering nervously in his stomach. It’s somewhat of an alien feeling to him after a childhood of eternally being the new kid in town, of never being a first choice, of never belonging, of existing upon a pendulum constantly swinging between too much and not enough. He’s never told Collins, even though he knows he should. Surely, it’s not gone unnoticed. Collins may be a Scotsman, but his perception cannot be so lacking. “What is it?” He reaches in the wicker basket and pulls a grey sweater out, shaking the wrinkles from the cashmere before pinning it to the line. 

“Open it,” Collins pulls a thin, rectangular package wrapped in butcher paper from behind his back and holds it up to Farrier. He takes it, turns it around a few times, and even holds it to his ear and shakes it.

“Well, what is it, Dan?” 

“ _ Chaz _ .”

“Alright, alright,” he smiles and peels the masking tape from the edges of the paper. He opens it and pulls the album out. Farrier isn’t surprised, but his delight is unrivaled. “Erik Satie’s [fifth ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RmUvInuJwS0)and sixth gnossienne,” Farrier reads. 

“Give it here and I’ll put it on.” He does so wordlessly and Collins takes the black record, placing it carefully on the record and setting the needle gingerly upon the vinyl. He presses the volume up and a few moments of silence crackle before the pianist begins the solo. 

It’s one of the few movements of the Gnossiennes that evokes anything other than melancholia. The notes stroll aimlessly like a leisure walk. There is a blandness to it, an unassuming plainness that can only be truly appreciated by those who have lived lives of the exact opposite. Where daring sorties and close dogfights appeal to most, Farrier finds he would much rather spend a Saturday hanging the wash up on the clothesline. Some might say such simplicity is a testament to the shell of a man the war left, but perhaps the revelry of domesticity is a testament of a man healed. 

He feels healed. Farrier has found that the path back to normalcy is not a linear one. He won't be surprised when nightmares overcome him or the sound of a gate slamming shut sends him into an inconsolable depression. And so, he takes his moments of healing as they come, and this is one he wants to hold onto forever. 

Farrier joins his other on the ground and makes a face. The stalks tickle his arms and ladybugs march beneath the canopy of the grass. He lies back slowly until he notices bees buzzing around him and his eyes can fixate on the sailing clouds above. Collins lays beside him and, quickly, without fanfare, their hands find each other. Daniel squeezes his hand thrice and Farrier squeezes four back. The lines of the piano swirl up and down, gliding atop the cool breeze. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [ tumblr ](http://www.khoroso.tumblr.com) (:


End file.
